The Reclamation of Sara Sidle
by Kristen Elizabeth
Summary: I'm trying to find a way to understand...but I need you. GSR, Spoilers through 8x08
1. A House is Not a Home

Disclaimer: Characters contained within do not belong to me.

Author's Notes: I owe many thanks to Cincoflex and Mingsmommy for walking through this story with me. And thank you for stopping by to read it:)

* * *

The Reclamation of Sara Sidle 

by Kristen Elizabeth

* * *

_I am changing  
I'll be better than I am  
I'm trying to find a way to understand  
But I need you…_

_- Dreamgirls_

* * *

**Chapter One: A House is Not a Home**

It's not hard to find Laura Sidle, even though her last name is Worthington now. When Sara shows up on the stoop of the townhouse her mother shares with her second husband, Laura doesn't ask questions. She hasn't seen Sara in almost eleven years, but she knows the look in her eyes.

Her daughter is reaching the end of some invisible rope and Laura is determined to help her hang on.

An invitation for Sara to stay at the house rather than a hotel is neither requested, nor extended; it's automatically assumed, and for Laura, it's the way things are going to be.

She only has one bag, but she seems hesitant about setting it down in the guest room Laura shows her to, as if by doing that, she'll be setting down permanent roots that she isn't quite ready to plant.

"I don't want to be any trouble," she says when Laura offers tea, coffee, or something stronger.

"Trouble? You're my daughter, Sara."

That's all it takes for Sara's dam to burst and for the next hour, Laura holds her youngest child while she cries. She hears a name mixed into her daughter's sobs, but it's muffled and faint. Will, maybe. Or Bill.

"You'll stay as long as you want," Laura firmly tells her. "As long as you need."

There's so much she wants to know about this woman to whom she gave birth. So much she needs to tell her.

But right then, Sara needs a little bit of food and a whole lot of rest.

She needs to be mothered.

* * *

The window in the guest room of her mother's townhouse overlooks the foggy Bay. For the past week, ever since her arrival, Sara has woken up to a slate-grey sky and rolling dark waves. On relatively clear mornings, she can just make out Alcatraz in the distance. 

It might be the one place on Earth that looks as lonely as she feels in those first waking moments.

It's funny how her dreams are never pleasant, but she still hasn't learned that things won't be any better when she wakes up, because he won't be lying beside her. She's come to realize that there is nothing sadder than a double bed with only one pillow.

But then there's always a knock on her door to jar her out of any impending melancholy. Laura has a sixth sense for when Sara's awake, and she enters almost before Sara invites her in.

"Good morning!" She always comes bearing a tray. That morning, it's fresh fruit, toast and scrambled eggs. Her mother has remembered to leave off the bacon, and that makes Sara smile. "Did you sleep well?"

Laura has asked this every morning, somehow needing the peace of mind that Sara's mind was peaceful in sleep. And Sara always lies. It's just easier. "Like a baby."

She's hungry, and that's something new. Laura sits on the edge of the bed while Sara eats. "What do you have planned for today?"

Sara spears a grape with her fork; she's been thinking about this for days, but has only now worked up the courage to ask. "I want to go to the old house." She pauses. "Will you come with me?"

"It's a long drive," Laura hesitates, worry flashing across her gently wrinkled brow. "Are you sure, Sara?

Suddenly, her breakfast isn't looking so good, or settling so well in her stomach. "No," Sara admits. "But I'm going anyway."

After a moment, Laura nods. "Then…I'll go, too."

While her mother is cleaning up downstairs, Sara takes a long, hot shower. Every time she closes her eyes under the spray, she expects to open them and find Grissom standing next to her, naked, wet and reaching for the soap.

* * *

There's a light drizzle all the way to Tomales Bay. It's the first time Sara's seen rain since the night in the desert, and it takes all of her willpower to focus on the twisting, coastal road in front of her. 

Laura is quiet in the passenger's seat of her own Cadillac. It's a welcome change; usually her mother is either pumping Sara for information about her life, or oversharing information about her own.

To be fair, it does ease her mind to see how well her mother is doing. Happily married to businessman who's currently on a trip to Tokyo, but who clearly adores Laura given the fact that he calls at least twice a day, a big, beautiful townhouse with an ocean view….her mother is living the life she should have had all along. Sara recognizes happiness now. It's what she has to find again before she can go home.

"Have you ever been back?" she asks her mother, breaking the silence. "Since that night?"

"Once." Laura isn't comfortable with the question or her answer judging by the twitch in her eye. "After I got out."

"How was it?"

It's another moment before her answer comes. "Excruciating."

Sara isn't afraid of the pain she might be inflicting on herself. It's better than being numb.

* * *

They arrive at lunch time, but Sara isn't hungry. Her stomach is still battling to digest her breakfast...and losing. Four Rolaids and she has not found relief. 

From the edge of town, it's another ten minutes to Seashore Lane. The house still sits in the middle of the street, weather-worn perhaps, but structurally the same as in Sara's nightmares. It's probably been painted several times since the Sidles last occupied it, but currently it's a nauseating shade of foam green. A "for sale" sign is posted in the front yard, and there are no cars in the driveway.

Mother and daughter sit in the comfort of the Cadillac for a long time before they get out. Shells and rocks crunch under their feet as they approach the front door. Sara touches the brass knocker, and suddenly she's terribly cold. She looks at her mother and sees that her eyes are closed, her face screwed up, lost in the pain of that last night.

No wonder the house is for sale. Her father is still here. They can't be the only ones to feel that.

"Why was that night different?" Sara asks before she loses her nerve.

Laura's eyes are wet when she opens them. "It wasn't the night that was different, Sara. It was me."

"What made you change?"

Her mother's reply is simple. "You." Laura tries to smile, but doesn't quite make it. "You didn't run and hide like you usually did. You stood right there and watched him hit me. And I thought…how can I let her grow up thinking this is normal?"

Bile is rising up in Sara's throat. "You could have packed us up and left him. It didn't have to end like…like it did."

"I've had a lot of years to wrestle with that, Sara. And the only conclusion my shrink and I have arrived at is this: I was only strong enough to pick up the knife."

The caw of a seagull fills the silence. "How did it start?" Sara finally asks. These are questions she's had in her heart for long; her chest feels emptier now that they're out in the open.

"How does it ever start, Sara? A harsh word here and there that you overlook." Laura lifts her shoulders. "You tell yourself you're being too sensitive when he says you're stupid, you can't do anything right, you're fat, ugly, a bad wife. But for all of that…when the first slap or punch comes…you can't believe he actually did it. You tell yourself you deserved it. He promises it'll never happen again…and for some reason you let yourself believe that." She stops for a breath. "It only takes a few times for you to get used to it. But you love him. He's the father of your children. You have to think about them. Where would you take them? If you leave, he'll come after you. You won't be able to protect them. So it's better to just stay…keep trying to make him happy. And maybe one day…he'll stop."

"You realized he wouldn't that night?"

Laura inclines her head. "I just couldn't stand who I'd become, Sara. I saw you making all of my mistakes someday because you didn't have a better example. I did what I had to do." She nods with certainty. "Maybe it's the years of therapy or finally being in a loving relationship…or seeing you grown up and so beautiful…but I have very few regrets."

Sara needs fresh air. She walks away a few paces, ignoring her mother when she calls for her. Laura catches up with her at the end of the cul-de-sac, and at the edge of the cliff that overlooks the churning Pacific.

"I'm glad you don't have regrets, Mom," Sara says, her words muffled by the battering wind. "But if it's okay with you, I have a few I'd like to get off my chest."

She reaches for Sara's hand and jumps when her daughter jerks it out of her reach. "Okay, Sara. Tell me."

"I regret that you did what you did for me and Mark and not for yourself. I regret that you pled guilty instead of fighting to clear your name. I regret that I lived with eight different families in the space of four years. I regret that you didn't come to my high school graduation. I regret that after you got out, you didn't come looking for me, that I had to go looking for you." Sara stuffs her hands in her pockets, a habit she picked up from her lover. Sometimes there's nothing else to do with them.

"Do you think that after everything I put you through, I felt like I deserved to be a part of your life?"

Sara shakes her head. "You are a part of my life. You're in my head all the time. I see you standing in the bedroom with that bloody knife. It's in my nightmares. I wake up screaming for you to stop, and Gil has to…" She bites her lip to stop herself. "I saw you in every battered woman I processed," she continues. "And I couldn't ever really help them, because I knew they'd just go back for more. I'd seen it happen…so many times. All I could do was wait for the day I'd see them again, dead or holding a knife."

"So…" Laura wipes tears from her cheeks. "I was too late then. To keep you from being…from being affected." She takes a breath. "I did it for nothing."

"No," Sara murmurs. "My issues…they're my own baggage. You're not responsible for them. I could have dealt with them years ago. I just didn't take the time. Until now."

"Why now?" Laura asks quietly.

Sara moves as close to the edge as the low metal railing will allow her. She remembers being younger, how her big brother would dare her to get closer and closer, until she was hanging over, looking down at the rocks below. By the time she was twelve, she had calculated how long it would take her to fall. Of course, she has to readjust her calculation, being that she's taller and heavier now.

She would hit rock bottom faster.

"I left someone behind in Vegas," she starts, hugging her arms around her body. The wind is chilly.

"Bill?"

"Gil." Even just saying his name makes Sara warmer. "He wants to marry me."

"Oh!" It's the universal sound of a happy mother, but it's quickly replaced with a worried frown. "But you left." Laura swallows heavily. "Did something happen? Did he…hurt you?" Her panic is written all over her face, like her greatest fear is coming true.

"He would take his own life before he raised a hand to me," Sara assures her. Laura's shoulders relax. "I didn't leave because of him. I left because of me." She borrows her mother's words. "I couldn't stand who I'd become."

They're quiet for a long time, save for the sound of the surf and the occasional gull overhead.

"I can't really hate this place," Laura says, her words almost lost on the wind. "I brought you and Mark home to this house. You played in this yard and I'd hear you laughing for hours. I had an herb garden, I painted the shutters blue...I lived so much of my life here."

"My life fractured here," Sara tells her. "So...here is where I'll start putting it together again."

They leave a few minutes later, and Sara knows she'll never come back. She won't need to.

The house is the first ghost she's able to lay to rest.

* * *

She calls Grissom that night. Her mother's husband, Joe, has come home from his trip. Her throat closes up at seeing him sweep Laura into his arms for what seems like an endless kiss. 

She wishes she hadn't been so desperately sad the last time she kissed Grissom. She wishes Hodges hadn't been there. She wishes she would have slowed down, taken her time, given him the chance to put his arms around her.

She wishes she had made a happier memory.

Joe greets Sara with a hearty smile. For a moment, she worries that he might pull her into a hug, but it ends up being a hearty handshake.

"I'm glad you're here," he tells her. "Laura's told me so much about you. I'm looking forward to getting to know you." Sara just fakes a smile. He might be ready for a step-daughter, but Sara isn't ready for another father.

She's still working on burying the last one.

While the happy couple prepares dinner, fresh clam chowder in sourdough bread bowls, what Joe calls "the real San Francisco treat," Sara takes her mother's cordless phone out to the front steps. Shivering in the semi-darkness of impending night, she dials their number by heart.

"Grissom," he answers out of habit.

"Gil, it's me."

"Are you okay, Sara?" It's the first question he asks and her heart thumps wildly in her chest. He still cares. Maybe someday he'll forgive her.

"I'm fine," she promises. "I'm in San Francisco."

"With your mother?" he guesses. She nods, and somehow he can sense it. "Is that…how is that?"

"She's changed a lot," Sara says. "I guess I have to. Gil…" A little girl on a pink tricycle zips down the sidewalk, followed by an out-of-breath woman about Sara's age. She watches them for a second before continuing. "I'm sorry. I should have told you I was leaving."

"You did." There's a trace of bitterness in his words. "You left a letter."

She shakes her head. "I should have told you." The mother and daughter reappear; the child is perched on her mother's hip while the weary woman drags the tricycle back up the hill. "I miss you," Sara whispers.

Grissom clears his throat. "Hank's been trying to keep your half of the bed warm, but he's a poor substitute. With much worse morning breath." He pauses. "I would have gone with you, Sara."

"I know. And if you'd asked, I would have said yes."

"But that's not what you need." His sigh is faint, but still audible. "I'm a selfish creature," he confesses. "I want you to come home."

"I will." She hadn't planned on saying that, so when it comes out, Sara is pleasantly surprised. "Not tomorrow and maybe not next month, but…" She smiles. "Don't find someone besides Hank to keep the bed warm."

"That will never happen, Sara."

Deep down, she knows this, but it helps to hear it straight from his lips. "I should go. Mom and Joe…her new husband…they're making dinner. Clam chowder."

"Are you eating seafood now?"

"No. But considering I just convinced my mother than bacon counts as meat, I think I'll just eat around the clams."

Grissom's chuckle is a good attempt, but falls flat. "Will you call again?" he asks a moment later, like a small child asking for another kiss goodnight.

"I will," Sara promises. "Goodnight."

"I love you, Sara."

She ends the call with the press of a button.

Long after the sun has set out over the Bay, her mother comes looking for her. Dinner is ready.

"Aren't you cold out here?" Laura asks, concerned.

With the phone pressed against her heart, Sara shakes her head. "I didn't even feel it."

* * *

To Be Continued 


	2. Californication

Disclaimer: Characters contained within do not belong to me.

Author's Notes: I apologize for the delay between chapters. I needed a boost of inspiration that the new promo for season nine provided. Thanks to Mingsmommy for being my beta and friend. Enjoy!

* * *

The Reclamation of Sara Sidle

by Kristen Elizabeth

* * *

_I'm gonna start right now, right here  
I'm hoping to work it out  
And I know that I can  
But I need you, I need a hand_

_- Dreamgirls_

* * *

The only picture Sara can remember of her father was taken in the summer of 1965, a year before he met Laura, on the Santa Monica Pier at sundown. As a child, she would stare at the weathered snapshot for hours, trying to reconcile the image of a twenty year old greaser wannabe with the hulking, pot-bellied monster who used the back of his hand more and more to keep order in the house.

After his death, she thought she'd never see the picture again. But there it was, in a box of equally aged photographs stuffed in the back of the guest room closet in her mother's new home. Laura would never miss it. At least that's what Sara told herself when she slipped it into her suitcase two days before leaving San Francisco.

She takes it with her to Los Angeles.

Sara arrives at the Pier close to sundown. Coming up the north entrance stairs, she is assaulted by smells: popcorn, French fries, sweat, the ocean itself. There are people everywhere, all around her, running, laughing, arguing, applauding, playing music, posing for pictures, eating…having the time of their lives.

She walks through them like a ghost, past the t-shirt and postcard stands, past the female impersonator singing Judy Garland songs, past the man who can write the entire Lord's Prayer on a grain of rice, past the restaurants and entrance to Pacific Park, all the way to the farthest point possible. The end of the Pier.

_The edge of the world in all of western civilization…_

Sara stands at the wind-beaten wood railing, salty gusts tangling her hair around her face, shading her eyes from the orange fire of the setting sun. Here, the laugher and screams from the Ferris wheel have faded, and all she can hear is the crash of the waves and the howl of the wind. The temperature is cooler than it was on the boardwalk and she understands why her father wore the leather jacket in the photograph.

She's studied the picture enough to know that she's standing in the same spot her father did when it was taken. But as desperate as she is to feel any tiny bit of a connection to him, she feels nothing but the cold bite of the Pacific air. He's not here. She's not sure why she thought he would be.

Sara wants to at least understand him. What made him tick? What turned him from the rebel on the pier to the wife-beater of her nightmares? She knows so little about him. He had been born in Echo Park, but moved to Santa Monica in junior high. He'd never finished high school, a sad fact that had propelled Sara through her own schooling. She'd never wanted his life.

Had there been some point when it could have all changed, could have all been different? Maybe it was right here. Maybe if he'd been in school instead of playing around at the beach, he could have educated himself, gotten a better job and had more money. No scrimping or pinching, no tight purse strings, no sheltering passing tourists to make a few bucks.

Tears sting her eyes and she wipes them away before the wind can chill them. The sun is nothing more than a flaming bump on the horizon. It's time to go. There are no answers here.

As she walks back down the long length of the Pier, she passes an old man playing the saxophone. She can barely hear the haunting notes over the noise of the crowd, but she stops to listen. She never liked the sax before Grissom. It's a lonely instrument, capable of giving voice to heartbreak.

"Sax is one letter away from sex, Sara," he'd told her as they swayed in comfortable rhythm to the slow jazz coming from the stereo in his living room. That was all it took to change her mind and make her a new fan of the sax. With his warm breath in her ear, she hadn't been able to hold back any longer. They'd made love for the first time on that sunny Sunday afternoon.

Fishing a ten dollar bill out of her pocket, Sara approaches the old man. "A Kiss to Build a Dream On," she quietly requests, dropping the money into his jar.

He winks his appreciation. "You got it, young lady."

The stars are coming out of hiding as he plays. If she closes her eyes, she can smell Grissom's skin, soapy clean with a hint of after-shave musk. It's been several months, but she still misses him as if she'd severed one of her own limbs.

The song is still playing as she pulls out her phone and dials.

"Where are you?" he answers, not demanding, but worried. "I called your mother's house yesterday and she said you'd left. And your phone went straight to voice mail."

"I'm in L.A.," she tells him. "Sort of. Santa Monica. My father lived here." She hopes he can hear her over the sounds of the pier. "My parents met on the Pier. 1966. They had funnel cakes. And Mom got pregnant. Not with my brother. She lost that baby. When I was little, I thought it was because of the funnel cakes."

"Is that why you don't eat them?"

She smiles, but it's weak. "Gil, I don't know how I'll ever understand him. There's nothing left. I can't even find his grave."

It takes a moment for Grissom to reply. "What would you say to a grave, Sara?"

"Nothing. Everything." The song is fading away. "I hated him. But I loved him."

"You don't have to feel guilty about either feeling," he says, his voice gentle and low.

Sara sighs and looks up at the sky. It's dark now and the stars are watching over the world. "I wish you were here."

"I could be." He gives her a second to absorb this. "Say the word, Sara, and I will be."

She crosses her arm over her stomach, holding back the urge to shout the word he wants to hear. "Did you come to the Pier when you were growing up?"

"Occasionally," he replies with obvious disappointment. "I was more interested in what washed up on the shore beneath the Pier, though."

"Maybe you and he were here at the same time once," Sara murmurs. "Maybe he walked right past you. Bumped into you. Told you to watch where you were going, kid."

She can see Grissom frowning at this. "I highly doubt it, Sara."

"But it's possible. Anything is possible." She lets out a strange, strangled laugh. "Imagine…the two most important men in my life came from the same place." She shakes her head, suddenly amused. "My dad, the rebel without a cause. And the love of my life, a tow-headed boy looking for dead animals. So close and yet…couldn't have been further apart."

"Sara." There's an edge of desperation in his voice. "Let him go."

"I want to see you," she says before she can stop herself. "I need to see you."

He doesn't hesitate. "I'm on the next flight out."

* * *

She picks him up at LAX four hours later. They pretend to have dinner at a nearby restaurant, but neither of them is hungry. At least not for food.

He looks the same, except for the return of his beard. Instead of eating her risotto, Sara watches him cut his strip steak into pieces without ever taking a bite. His foot bumps hers under the table and it's as though her whole body has been lit on fire.

Grissom must feel it too. He calls for the check and overpays, leaving the money on the table as he takes Sara's hand and pulls her out of the booth.

They find a hotel and check in, barely making into their room before they crash into each other. He burns her skin with his beard and his lips and she loves it. She digs her nails into his back through the cotton of his shirt as he tortures her ear with his tongue.

"Please," she begs him breathlessly. "Please, Gil…"

She doesn't need to finish her plea. He knows what she needs and is already working on pushing enough clothing out of the way to give it to her. When he's finally inside her again, where he belongs, she wraps her arms and legs around him and holds on.

It's over quickly, time and distance having made them ravenous, yet it leaves them both gasping for air, thoroughly sated. They'll need each other again before dawn, but for the moment, it's enough just to be lying there together, half naked and completely sweaty.

Sara glances over at him. His eyes are closed and she smiles. Rough sex always relaxes him to the point of dozing, a fact she's used against him in the past when he'd needed sleep after a long day.

She climbs out of bed, taking his discarded shirt with her. Pulling it on, she does up only enough buttons to cover her breasts as she walks to the window. With the heavy curtains pushed open, she can see the lights of the city spread out below as far as the eye can see. They're hypnotizing; she doesn't even sense him coming up behind her until his arm snakes around her and she's drawn against his chest.

Grissom rests his chin on her shoulder as he slips his hand in the opening of his shirt and cups her well-loved breast. "There's a piece of my world missing when you're not with me, Sara," he tells her, his voice deep with renewed desire.

"I know," she whispers. "Believe me…I know."

He turns his face into her neck, nuzzling her sensitive skin. "What happens tomorrow?"

"You go home." She takes a deep breath. "I go to Boston."

"Why?"

"I got better there last time. When I went to Harvard…got out of California." A moment passes. "Maybe it'll work this time, too."

Grissom turns her around to face him. "I will hate every second that you're thousands of miles away."

Sara's only reply is a kiss that rapidly grows into something more. She finds herself hiked up against the window, his solid body holding her up as he pounds into her. Each thrust is a small punishment that she gladly accepts. She'll have bruises in the morning and she'll cherish every one of them.

They sleep until dawn when he wakes her by slipping one finger into her slippery heat. After coaxing a final orgasm from her, he kisses her and leaves her lying on the bed. She stays there, wrapped up in the sheets that smell like their bodies, until long after his flight has departed.

Her own flight east leaves several hours later.

* * *

To Be Continued


End file.
